


Where Artists Go When it Rains

by Bookworm1063



Series: CO Countdown 2020 [8]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Carry On Countdown (Simon Snow), Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:08:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27844246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bookworm1063/pseuds/Bookworm1063
Summary: “Don’t look now,” Penny whispers, “But Writer Boy’s coming up to the counter.”I freeze, and Penny rolls her eyes.“Talk to him, Simon! This is literally the perfect opportunity!” She shoves me toward the counter just as Writer Boy steps up.A rainstorm keeps Simon late at work, and gives him a chance to finally talk to the cute boy who frequents the coffee shop.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch & Simon Snow, implied future snowbaz
Series: CO Countdown 2020 [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2026988
Comments: 8
Kudos: 42
Collections: Carry On Countdown 2020





	Where Artists Go When it Rains

**Simon**

“Hey, Simon. Have you looked outside?”

I glance up from the espresso machine I’m cleaning out. “Oh. Shit.”

Outside, a thunderstorm has just rolled in. The rain is so bad, I can’t see past the front window of the Old Goat.

Next to me, Penelope, my favorite coworker, sighs. “We’re stuck here if the road floods, you know.”

Penny’s right. On my way home, about ten minutes from the shop, there’s this bridge over a small stream. It floods every time the weather’s bad. In the other direction, the road goes out of town and winds through a series of valleys, which will also all flood. It’ll take hours to get everything cleared out, and they can’t even start until the storm stops.

“It’s not closing time for another half hour,” I say.

Ebb emerges from the back room. I know from the look on her face that it’s not good.

“We’re rained in, you two,” she says. “First valley’s filling up, and they’re saying the bridge will be under in the next five minutes. Roads are already closed.”

I’m probably not getting home tonight. 

Ebb goes up to the counter and rings the little bell, demanding the attention of the few customers still in the shop as she explains the situation. There are only four of them—it’s half past ten on a Wednesday night. The Old Goat is one of the only places open this late.

Penny elbows me in the side. “Chin up,” she says. “Writer Boy is still here.”

Writer Boy is here almost every night. He has a laptop bag from the local uni, so I assume he’s a student, looking for someplace quiet to work. I snuck a peek at his laptop screen once, and caught a few lines about a dragon battle. He’s got a notebook, too, and a pen, and every once in a while, he’ll stop typing to make a note.

Also, he’s fit. Long black hair that he ties up in a bun, perfectly fitted jeans, and piercing gray eyes. Penny noticed how much I watch him, and she won’t let it go.

**Baz**

I’m stuck in a coffee shop. It’s every writer’s dream, but I just want a shower and a good night’s sleep. My fingers ache from typing, and I found a plot bunny half an hour ago that I have no idea what to do with.

Oh well. The cute barista is working tonight, so I suppose the evening isn’t a complete loss.

I don’t even know what I see in him. His hair is a mess of uneven bronze curls, he only ever wears the Old Goat’s uniform, and his eyes are a completely ordinary blue. I don’t think I’ve every heard him speak a complete sentence.

It’s endearing, for some reason.

I close my laptop and slip it back in my bag. It’s almost dead, anyway, and I don’t feel like getting out my charger. I think about going up to the counter and ordering a coffee. They’re technically still open, and I’m not sleeping in one of these ancient wooden chairs. They give the place atmosphere, but they’re uncomfortable as fuck.

**Simon**

“Don’t look now,” Penny whispers, “But Writer Boy’s coming up to the counter.”

I freeze, and Penny rolls her eyes.

“Talk to him, Simon! This is literally the perfect opportunity!” She shoves me toward the counter just as Writer Boy steps up. 

“Could I get a coffee?” he asks.

“Um, yeah. Sure. Anything else? And what size?” I ask.

“The biggest. And… what do you have to eat around here?”

Is he asking me for a recommendation, or is he being an asshole? I decide I might as well answer honestly.

“The sour cherry scones are really good.”

“I’ll take two.”

I make his coffee while Penny heats up the scones, and I pass it all over to him at the pickup counter.

“Thanks,” he says. Then, for some reason, he hesitates.

I watch him, my heart in my throat.

“I’m not really going to eat both of these,” Writer Boy says. “I’ll leave one at my table for you. Whenever you’re done with your shift.”

I check the wall clock. Technically, I was done fifteen seconds ago.

I pull my apron off over my head and leave it on the counter, mentally apologizing to Penny for abandoning her with the rest of the cleaning. “I’m off now.”

“Alright.”

I follow Writer Boy to his table in the corner. He sits down and hands me one of the scones as I slide into the chair opposite him. “I’m Simon, by the way. Simon Snow.”

“Basilton Pitch,” Writer Boy says. “People just call me Baz.”

I take a bite of my scone and chew, trying to think of something to say.

“What are you studying?” I ask, nodding at his laptop bag.

“I’m not. I’m working on my novel,” Baz says. “I graduated last year.”

I would have, too, if I’d been able to afford uni.

“That’s really cool,” I say, and I mean it. “What’s it about?”

Baz shrugs. “Nothing, really. I’m just messing around between jobs.”

“Me, too,” I say, relieved. We have something in common—sort of. “I mean, this is my job, but I don’t want to work in a coffee shop for the rest of my life.”

“What do you want to do?” Baz leans forward, like he really cares about my answer.

“I haven’t thought about it much,” I admit. “Something with art, maybe.”

“You draw?”

I shrug. I’ve been drawing since I was a kid, but I’m not that good. I mean, I’m good, but I’m not _amazing_ or anything. I don’t think I could make a living doing it.

“Well,” Baz says. “It looks like we’re going to be stuck here for a while.” He digs through his laptop bag and pulls out a neatly wrapped charger, his laptop, and another journal. He passes me the notebook.

It has a black pen and a mechanical pencil tucked into an elastic strap on the side. The pages are unlined. The first few are covered in Baz’s cramped handwriting.

“You can draw in there, if you want,” he says.

I don’t actually get to draw as much as I’d like to, so I open the journal and find a blank page.

It takes me almost half an hour to notice that Baz is still watching me. He’s got his other notebook open in front of him, and he’s watching me draw while he writes, scribbling away without looking down at his own page.

I open my mouth to say something, but he’s already looking away. He’s not blushing, exactly, but he does seem a little embarrassed.

“Sorry,” he says. “I used to do that when I was a kid. I’d pick someone off the street and write their story. Sometimes I’d follow them around for a little while, which I realize now is creepy.”

“Were you writing about me?” I ask. I’m not upset, I realize. I’m curious. What did this boy see that he wanted to write about?

“Not exactly,” he says.

“Can I see?”

Baz hands me the notebook.

He didn’t write about me, I realize. He wrote about…

I glance down at my half-finished drawing. I like to draw what I see, and I’ve drawn two boys at a coffee shop table. They don’t really look like us, because I hate doing self-portraits and because I’d have no idea where to begin, trying to draw Baz.

I haven’t really done much of the background, so it’s just the blank outline of a window and indistinct lines of other people. It could be any two boys at any coffee shop in any situation.

In Baz’s story, it’s a date.

I can’t make out some of his handwriting—it’s neat, but it’s cursive, and tiny, and he writes on the lines instead of between them, but I get the general idea. Also, he’s really good. I’m reading this, and I know it’s based on whatever’s happening here, right now, but this feels so much more real.

“Are you… asking me out?” I ask.

“Maybe,” Baz says.

I turn a page in the notebook and scribble my mobile number on the back of my drawing, just as Ebb appears at our table.

“Simon! They’ve opened the bridge back up. The rain was over quick. I need your help loading the truck.”

I stand up, still watching Baz. “Call me.”

He nods. “I will.”

I follow Ebb into the back.


End file.
